


A New Page

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (in more ways than one), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Falling In Love, First Times, Fluff, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Party Games, Smut, Weird dating, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 16:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14168439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: Draco just wanted to find out what was up with Potter's new attitude. Some light stalking, the discovery of a hidden diary, and a lot of wanking later, and he has some answers.They're just not the ones he expected.(Things have changed since sixth year, folks. ...Mostly.)





	A New Page

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carpemermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpemermaid/gifts).



> For the lovely [carpemermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpemermaid/pseuds/carpemermaid), who is a magical, Hufflepuffian sea creature who dragged me into the fandom by my hair, nurtures everyone she meets, and has always been fabulously kind. Happy birthday, you wonderful thing!! <3
> 
> Thank you so much to [LowerEastSide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LowerEastSide/pseuds/LowerEastSide) for the speedy and thoughtful beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> All characters belong to JKR and associated publishers. I just like writing them into porn sometimes.

_~Page One~_

Stalking is such an ugly word. 

Appropriate, maybe, Draco concedes, watching Potter from a distance. But still — he'd prefer not to use it. Really, he's only _investigating_ , which is rather warranted; Potter’s behaviour toward him in the last few weeks has gotten decidedly odd, all furtive peeks across the Eighth Year table and tentative smiles, as though that's _ever_ been something they do. Offering to help him in Defence. Patting him on the shoulder and saying, _Good job, Malfoy. I knew you could do it._ Spending time at what was well-known to be Draco's thinking spot, under the lone tree a hundred metres south of the Quidditch pitch.

Something definitely isn’t right. 

And it’s not as if Potter doesn't have it coming, after his efforts in sixth year, Draco thinks as Potter glances to and fro, then strides away. He immediately winces at the comparison, but Disillusions himself all the same and sneaks up to the tree in question. He wonders what kind of a statement Potter is making by setting up camp under a tree that, previously, almost no one else has gone near. It practically has Draco’s name stamped on it, at this point, and he resents having to make room for Potter’s intrusion the way everyone else does without question now — just because he’s a hero, and brave, and fantastically fit, and has eyes that are so green that—

Draco cuts off that pesky line of thinking for the umpteenth time that week and refocuses. Oh, yes: he’s resentful. He scowls at the tree, examining it for changes, but can’t find anything different. His initials are still scored into a knot at the base — wand practice from first year — and the lowest-hanging branch is, when Draco tests it, not likely to break beneath his weight. Defeated, he sighs, scuffing the toe of his shoe in the dirt and uncovering a... glow?

“What?” he murmurs. He crouches, hiking up his robes so they don’t drag, and pulls his wand. Clearing the rest of the dirt takes no time, and the glow fades to reveal a nondescript book with a plain leather cover, held closed with leather cords twined into a bow. He casts a couple of revealing charms and, when no hexes appear, reaches for it. Paranoid, he looks over his shoulder before lifting it out of its hole; he still half-expects it to burn him, perhaps, or rid him of all of his hair — which would be a shame, really, as he’s pretty fond of his new, shorter cut. New hair, new man and all that. (Plus the turning of new leaves, and apologising to everyone he ever wronged, but that’s not as fun to think about, so…) Even Blaise says it suits him.

But the book is just a book, and his brow knits as he turns it over in his hands. The leather binding is soft with age but well cared for, and the edges of the pages are ragged, as though torn with stylistic intent. He hears a rustle and looks around again; he sags to see a rabbit hop into its burrow. Reassured he’s not being watched — there’s no telltale tingle at the nape of his neck to alert him to Potter’s Invisibility Cloak — Draco settles his back against the niche in the tree trunk that fits him perfectly and unties the cords, opening the book to the middle.

_Malfoy said—_

Draco slams the book and his eyes closed at the same time, his name written in such precise, purple script already burned into his retinas. A diary, then. Potter hid his _diary_ under Draco’s tree… Of all places. He cracks the spine open just barely, ruffling the thick pages with one fingertip, considering.

It’s practically an _invitation_ , really. Especially if Potter is writing about him. And he _had_ sworn — to himself, but that’s immaterial — to find out what Potter was up to. 

Decision (dubiously) made, Draco opens the book to the first page.

_Draco Malfoy was a lot of things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. His hair was too pale or too bright, depending on the day, and he always spoke with his hands, and he **swaggered** in a way that wasn’t remotely decent for polite society, and he made the worst mistakes, whenever there were mistakes to be made. And Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, would not have been — very — inclined to let these characteristics affect him on anything other than the base, biological level of attraction if not for one thing: Draco Malfoy was sorry for all he’d done. _

_His apologies, both in written form and haltingly spoken at the beginning of eighth year, tugged at Harry’s heart. There was a new softness to Draco’s eyes, a wariness that was so different from the fear he’d carried with him before the war; it lacked the heaviness of his terror, but felt thick with the sort of anticipation one might expect from someone trudging toward a Dementor, fully resigned to the darkest kind of kiss._

_Harry couldn't stop watching him, disliking the way Draco no longer seemed quite like himself...and disliking himself for being so intrigued by the changes. He ruminated on them each night in the shower, one soapy hand stroking its way down the fine trail of hair on his stomach before gripping the fullness of his fully erect—_

“What the fuck?”

Unable to close the book but no longer able to read it — swagger, his arse, and who the hell does Potter think he _is_ , writing Draco as if he’s… he’s… he’s _sad_ , and _weak_ , or soft? There is literally nothing soft about him, Draco thinks, squirming a touch. Not his eyes, not his...anything.

And what exactly does Potter expect? That he’ll write something obscene and lure Draco into confessing absolutely _nothing_? (He doesn't even have anything to confess, anymore.) Not that he would be tempted to if he did, of course, no matter how seductive Potter’s plan.

Draco stares sightlessly out at the field separating his spot from the Quidditch pitch. In the distance, the Hufflepuff team begins its drills with surprising grace. 

“What are you up to, Potter?” he murmurs, thinking. His face has gone hot, and if he keeps nibbling on his lip, he’ll have to use the special balm he reserves for… Well.

Draco swallows hard, craning his neck to look at the tree behind him.

“Did he _want_ me to find it?”

Draco turns his eyes back to the page, and resumes reading.

***

“Hey Malfoy.” Potter’s friendly, curious face falters into a grimace when Draco trips, the pile of parchment in his arms scattering.

“Fuck. What do you want?” 

It’s not exactly what Draco had meant to say the next time he and Potter ran into each other, but spilling his papers _does_ explain the way his face turns, he’s sure, bright pink. He taps Potter on the shoulder pointedly, with a touch of regret — the idiot has fallen to his hands and knees to help collect the parchment. It’s a pretty sight in anyone’s opinion, Draco’s sure, and he’s tempted to allow it just so he can keep admiring Potter’s arse, but Potter looks up questioningly and Draco sighs and waves his wand. He rolls his eyes at the ease of Potter’s smile when his parchment flies, stacked, back into his arms. 

“I, uh.” Potter stands, dusting off his knees. His cheeks have a faint tinge as well, and his green eyes are too keen for Draco’s comfort. “Just wanted to say… Good class.”

Pulse rapping out a Weird Sisters beat in his throat, Draco nods curtly and continues on his way, barely flinching when Potter falls into step beside him. It _shouldn’t_ matter to him that, for whatever reason, Potter has decided to write semi-pornographic scenes involving the two of them. What Draco should _really_ be concerned about is who _told_ Potter that Draco might have certain inclinations that favoured messy jet hair and vivid emerald eyes behind smudged specs.

“Thanks. And you,” he says coolly, voice cracking only a little. He coughs to cover. “You’ve gotten better at potions this year.”

“Yeah. Snape was… Well, Snape.” Potter tilts his head like he doesn’t really know where to go with that. “Smart, but maybe not the best teacher.”

“Not if you didn’t pay attention.”

To Draco’s surprise, Potter responds with a low huff of laughter. “I was a little busy?”

Draco slants him a glance. “Right. I forgot.”

“You did?”

Lips twitching traitorously, Draco nods again. “Someone has to.”

“Well, then I’m glad it’s you.” Potter drags a hand through his hair, somehow managing to make it even more ~~attractive~~ disheveled. He takes Draco’s arm, halting him in place, and Draco sternly controls his features for fear of goggling at the unexpected touch. “I’m, uhm, glad you came back this year.”

“Me too.” Draco licks his lips, mind on a scene from chapter three of Potter’s filthy book; their first date finished, Potter had pressed him against the stones of the castle for a kiss, their mouths described as things like _hungry_ and _hot_ , and it had been all Draco could do to close and re-bury the book before heading back to the dorms for some much needed relief from his newfound condition. Potter’s gaze drops to his mouth; his eyes flicker, and his hand falls away. 

Draco lifts his chin, relieved. (He thinks.) He still can’t pinpoint what game Potter is playing.

“You never know the kinds of things you’ll learn when you give something another chance,” he says boldly. 

“No, I guess you don’t.” Potter smiles. “Are you busy, or did you want to come down to Hogsmeade with a few of us?”

It turns him momentarily dizzy, that smile — _Potter’s_ smile, directed at _him_ (as well as, if he’s honest, the images branded in his head from that damned book) — and it takes Draco a second to respond. “I just need to drop these off in my room,” he lies, indicating the mountain of homework he needs to have done before tomorrow. He smiles back. “Then I’m all yours.”

***

_~Page Fifty-Eight~_

_Draco moaned wantonly, pressing his thigh between Harry’s legs. He grabbed for Harry’s hips and rolled them. Harry bucked up against the friction, his fingers sliding through Draco’s silver-gilt hair. “Gorgeous,” he said gruffly. “Draco, I want to—”_

_“Me too,” Draco whispered against his mouth. “But I’ve never… I’ve never been with anyone before. Can we take it slow?”_

Draco scoffs, glancing around surreptitiously before shoring up his Disillusionment charm with a definitive wave of his wand. “Slow? Oh Merlin, who am I supposed to be in this?” He licks his thumb and turns the page, then works his trousers open enough to stuff his hand into them.

_”We don’t even need to have sex tonight,” Harry said, rutting up against Draco’s thigh. Draco laughed and repositioned into a straddle over him, nimble hands working Harry’s flies open._

_“Well, thanks for your permission not to shag you,” he said over the sound of the zip sliding down._

“That’s more like it,” Draco mumbles, curling a hand around his risen prick. 

_Draco slipped his fingers — long and elegant, but surprisingly strong — into the placket of Harry’s pants and ran them over the stiff length of his erection. “I wasn’t planning on it, anyway. How lucky do you think yourself to be?”_

_“Very,” Harry gasped, arching into his touch. Draco smiled and leaned down, nosing the valley of Harry’s neck and licking off the salt of his sweat. Draco told him once that his smell always made him think of of Quidditch leathers, of flying, of the heat of magic pulsing from his wand._

“Pulsing from my something,” Draco says, growing breathless, his fist working faster over his shaft. He continues wanking as he reads — book-Harry’s version of taking it slow is, apparently, fucking Draco’s throat until his voice goes hoarse, and then fingering Draco gently until he comes — and climaxes with a low groan, hips twitching convulsively into his own grip as he stickies up the inside of his pants. Relaxing against the bark of the wood, Draco cleans himself up with a quickly muttered spell, rebuttons his trousers, and contemplates the book. His fingers, not completely clean, smear a spot of spunk near the bottom of page fifty-eight. 

In the few weeks since he first found it, he’s at least become convinced that Harry isn’t deliberately tormenting him. Best case scenario (though Draco knows not to hope for the best, these days, so he can scarcely believe it), they’re actually dating. Worst, they’ve become odd, unlikely friends who occasionally put their hands on each other’s thighs when squished in too tight together in a pub booth, and have almost kissed several times before getting interrupted.

Well, no. Worst case, and this is all a giant prank. 

But that still doesn’t explain the book, or why Harry hasn’t tried to...enact any of the scenes in it. He adds to it occasionally — sometimes only a page or two, sometimes a whole chapter of sorts; little, smutty tidbits for Draco’s pleasure, not always keeping in line with the story. He’d be tempted to be _offended_ by it, if not for what a turn on it is to be privy to Harry’s fantasies in this fashion. If not for how Harry’s fantasies — out of character though they sometimes are — align with his own. 

Draco frowns at the setting sun and conjures a watch. He moves to clean off the page, hand stilling over the barely-there proof of his arousal. He hesitates, then closes the book and sets it in the soft earth, covering it hastily. He and Harry have a… whatever… and he doesn't want to be late.

***

“And _who_ thought a game of Legilimens vs. Occlumens would be fun?” Pansy asks with a pout, resting languidly between Millie’s thighs, Millie’s hands spread out over her abdomen.

“I did,” Granger says, managing to sound lofty even though she’s gone as legless as the rest of them. She hands Draco a hat and he looks at it, perplexed — why on _earth_ would he cover his hair? — until she mimes drawing a piece of paper from it. 

“Oh.” Draco tries to remember the shape of paper Harry threw in after writing his name; he’d crumpled it tight, not folding it like most had. His fingers drag over the shape of a tiny ball, and he plucks it out.

“Cheater,” Harry says, with such obvious fondness that Draco’s neck grows warm.

“I didn’t even look.” He unfolds the paper anyway and holds up Harry’s messy scrawl triumphantly. “Although it’s good to know I’ll win something. You’re shit at Legilimency.”

“No, no.” Granger tilts him a tiny grin. “The names drawn are going to be given an image to protect that you'll have to figure out.”

“I’m shit at Occlumency, too,” Harry offers. Draco sits — or possibly collapses, so unsteady are his feet after his third firewhiskey — on the floor beside him. 

“Good to know,” he murmurs, leaning against his side. The reading and guarding of minds is something best done sober, but Draco’s willing to exchange some pride for the scent of Harry’s cologne — something he’s only started wearing recently — lingering in the air around them. It’s clean and vaguely citrusy, like flutterby bushes in the spring. Harry leans against him back and they support each other in that fashion as Granger walks around the Common room to distribute the images she wants the Occlumens to envision. Pansy starts laughing and murmurs in Millicent’s ear before switching places with Lovegood to try to read Ginevra’s mind.

Granger huffs, “No talking!” She sighs when Weasley nudges her, a dopey grin stretched across his face. “Until you have the image. First to guess the correct image, wins!”

“Ready?” Harry asks, voice low in Draco’s ear.

“Not even a little,” Draco says honestly, and they both start laughing; Merlin knows why. Harry skates a hand up Draco’s shoulder, clamping gentle fingers around the back of his neck for a comforting squeeze. Like he _knows_ that Draco, drunk though he is, is aware of the trust Harry’s extending by playing this game at all — let alone with _him_. Draco nods, his own goofy smile tugging at his lips before he schools his face and pulls away.

Lips are...not to be thought of, he reminds himself. At least not until Harry acknowledges whatever the fuck it is they’re doing.

“Time starts…” Granger pauses dramatically and Draco snorts; she’s not even wearing a watch. “...Now!”

Instantly the room is a flurry of papers being opened, soft groans or giggles accompanying the revelation of whatever their image is. Harry pauses upon reading his, then closes it in his fist. 

“Go to it, then.”

Draco takes a deep breath, scooting onto his knees to face him. Harry gives him a benign smile, leaning back on his palms as his dark, tangled lashes flutter shut. Draco burps a bit of smoke and begins.

It’s… unnerving, to reach out with his mind while the room swoops around him. He keeps his breaths even, in and out through his nose to steady himself, hands flat on the tops of his thighs. He’s not unskilled at Legilimency, but the whisper of thoughts in the background is distracting, and it’s been a while since he’s had a chance to practice this particular talent. 

“A, uhmm…” Pansy’s voice breaks his concentration; Draco glares at her, wilting when she doesn’t pay the slightest bit of attention. “Something to do with Quidditch…”

Harry brushes soft fingertips over Draco’s knuckles. “Over here.”

“Right.” Draco exhales and focuses; he’s competitive enough that he’ll sulk if _Pansy_ wins over him, but more than that, he doesn’t want to lose the opportunity to slink into Harry’s head. Even for a stupid party game. 

He extends his mind once more, finally feeling the brush of it against a fuzzy wall of complex images, like the touch of Harry’s fingers against his hand, but far more yielding. Draco slips through them, discarding the things he’s not supposed to see without a second thought: images of the Dark Lord in a dark forest fall to the wayside, as do miserable nights in a freezing tent, and his own name moving on a widespread map. Unerringly, he spots the thing Harry’s trying — badly; he really is shit at Occlumency — to hide.

“A— a muggle cartoon!” he shouts. Harry laughs delightedly, and Draco pushes further in. “There’s a snake in my boot!” He sees the word and says it: “Woody!”

“Malfoy for the first round!” Granger calls, resulting in a cacophony of grumbles. She throws them a charming grin, eyes bright with drink — or perhaps just because she gets off on organisation, Draco can’t tell. “Go ahead and sit out; you’ll go up against the next winner.”

“I’m still here,” Harry says softly. Draco turns, startled to realise their minds are still tenuously linked.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“No.” Harry’s hand lands on his thigh. “It’s _okay._ ”

Draco blinks, pausing in the middle of retracting his mind. Slowly, flicking Harry an uncertain glance, he pushes deeper again. Like before, the surrounding thoughts melt, leaving Draco with the image of… _himself,_ unknotted tie hanging carelessly from his open collar, lips swollen and wet and pink, hair a tousled mess. He looks debauched and sexy and _everything that damned book describes him as_ , and Draco’s cock jerks in his trousers, hard.

“Harry.”

“Been wanting to,” Harry says, smile as crooked as his glasses. “Kiss you, I mean. Think you’d let me?”

Draco stares at him for a beat.

“Granger!” he barks.

“What?” 

He curls Harry’s tie around his fist; hauls him up. “We’re out,” he announces, and drags Harry from the room amidst hoots and hollers.

They’re not in his dorm two seconds before Harry presses him against the closing door, body wedged tight against Draco’s. He swivels his hips and Draco stutters out a groan. “Well then?”

“Well, what?” Harry asks breathlessly. He does that delicious hip thing again, grinding what feels to be a rather impressive erection against Draco’s pelvic bone. 

“You said something about a kiss?” Draco manages, head thunking backward against the heavy wood of the door. 

“So I did,” Harry says. His breath against Draco’s face is smoky with liquor, warm and oddly sweet. For all the filth his undulations imply, the press of their mouths surprises Draco with its softness. Draco keeps his eyes open; Harry does too, like he doesn’t want to miss any of it, either. They look at each other as their lips fit together, breath catching and mingling. His eyes drift shut at the touch of Harry’s tongue, at the tentative way he urges Draco’s lips apart to allow him entrance. Harry’s tongue is slick, fevered, _hot_ and _hungry_ , and all of those other perfect, perfect descriptions from his story. 

When he pulls back, they’re both panting; Harry’s gaze flares with satisfaction as it dips to Draco’s mouth. Draco flashes to the image Harry conjured just for him, and wonders if he looks that way.

“More,” he says. Harry grins, and obliges.

***

_Page One Hundred Thirty-Eight_

Draco digs violently into the dirt with his shoe, feeling petty. It’s unnecessary, and one of the leather cords snaps when he uncovers the diary; the lavender glow fizzles before blinking out. Draco picks up the book and throws himself back against the tree, thumbing it open. 

It’s not that he’s _unhappy_ , per se. It’s simply that, in the weeks since he fisted a hand in Harry’s tie, they haven’t done much beyond what they accomplished that night: hands down each other’s pants as they rolled around on Draco’s bed, rumpling his duvet. But even that might be acceptable (especially since Harry’s pornography tends to imply he likes the idea of a shy, sweet first time) if Harry seemed remotely amenable to actually _solidifying_ their relationship in some way. 

They’re dating; everyone knows that. Harry holds his hand in public (once even drawing up Draco’s knuckles to kiss, much to the general amusement of the rest of their circle), and they compromise on activities (Draco took him to a wizarding circus, where Harry got way too excited to ride the pegasus — an activity, Draco tried to explain, that was for four-year-olds — and in return Harry introduced him to the wonders of Toy Story and popcorn). Afterward, they snog for hours (Draco ends up using his balm every night, on both his chapped lips and the stubble burn around his mouth), and occasionally — when they’re not interrupted — indulge in bringing each other to mind-blowing climaxes with their hands (and on one brain-melting occasion, Harry’s mouth). 

But it’s not exactly as if Draco can ask what any of it _means._ He knows how he feels, and Harry certainly shows signs of real affection, but as the school year dwindles, Draco finds himself twitching when the subject of next year’s plans come up. Is he going to pursue the Specialised Potions opening at the Ministry? Does he want to become an Auror? An Unspeakable? Would he rather travel the Continent and explore where life takes him?

Harry’s going to be an Auror; he’s made that clear. But not once when the topic turns to their futures does he ask what Draco is going to do. He doesn’t even seem curious. 

Draco rubs at his eyes, then scrubs his hand down his face. It feels pathetic to seek answers from someone’s fantasy diary, but when Harry returned from his “walk” with purple ink smudges on his fingertips, staring at Draco with a significantly stubborn set to his jaw before turning to talk to Weasley, it was the only solution that came to mind. 

Sucking in a breath, Draco holds in it in lungs until he starts to get dizzy before exhaling. He looks down at the newest passage; he blinks and flips back the pages to where it begins. 

_”I don’t know, Harry,” Draco said. He looked cold; Harry hated that, hated the ease with which disdain could cross his fox-like face. “It’s not as if we’ve ever made a real commitment.”_

_“Not for lack of trying on my part,” Harry muttered, turning away. Draco caught his arm, the pads of his fingers digging painfully into Harry’s bicep. Their eyes locked; Draco’s icy grey gaze filled with heat, intense and focused, like condensing smoke when it first drifts from the lick of flames._

_And just like that, they were back in each other’s arms. Harry moaned into Draco’s kiss, and Draco took advantage as he’d been doing all year whenever Harry showed a weakness: his tongue slipped into Harry’s mouth, devastating all of his senses, his arms locking tight around Harry’s shoulders. They stumbled toward the nearest bed;_ Ron will kill me _, Harry thought, but tugged Draco onto it anyway._

 _“What do you_ want _?” Draco’s voice broke in the middle of the question. He was back to himself, Harry noted with distant relief, his coolness stripped away by the heat of their kiss. Draco’s masks of indifference fit him far too well, and Harry could never be sure where he stood until Draco showed the softness of his sharp features underneath._

_“I want you,” Harry breathed into their next kiss. He cupped Draco’s jaw with one hand, moving the other to work between them. Draco was already so hard, but his eyes glittered with moisture. “I thought that was clear.”_

_“Harry…” Draco’s hips juddered searchingly when Harry massaged his cock through layers of wool, but his voice came out uncertain; he knew how to be so many things at once, Draco, and Harry thought he’d never tire of peeling back his layers. “Nothing about us is clear. Just — fuck, like that, yes — just tell me.”_

_“I love you,” Harry said. The words, so long caught in his throat whenever he felt about to say them — so much for his legendary bravery — surged out of him, reckless to the consequences. If Draco wanted someone or something else, he needed to know. “I want to keep you.”_

_“You fucking bastard,” Draco growled; he lowered his head, biting savage marks into Harry’s throat. “It’s awful how much I love you.” The words burned against Harry’s skin; proprietary; demanding. Harry grabbed him—_

“Right, then.” Draco snaps the book closed and stands, inexplicable fury thrumming through his body like the burn of a hex.

***

He never walks as purposefully through the halls of Hogwarts as he used to, unless Harry is by his side. But his strides are long and loud in the corridor, and the other students part as he passes, alerted by something in Draco’s face or body tension, or the way his knuckles have gone yellow-white as he grips the book.

The eighth year Common room is practically empty, and he ignores the few startled glances he gets, ignores Millie’s “Draco, what—” as he brushes past her. He makes it to Harry’s door and raps twice before bursting in. Weasley spins around from his desk, hand already fitted with his wand. 

“I need to talk to you,” he says to Harry, who’s propped up on his pillows, legs stretched out before him. Harry glares at him, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

“This is _our room_ , Malfoy—” Weasley starts. Draco whips him a withering glance, not surprised when it, for once, works. Weasley falls silent for a beat. “...Harry?”

“I need a few, Ron.”

Sighing heavily and shooting Draco a glower, Weasley gathers up his books. His shoulder knocks into Draco as he leaves. 

The silence in his absence is loud; thick. Draco raises the book and sees the moment Harry’s eyes process it. He tries to stay calm, but as Harry’s book so aptly mentioned, he’s not the most subtle person alive. 

“When,” Draco grinds out, “are we going to talk about this?”

“I guess now,” Harry says, equally angry; he practically seethes with the same offence Draco feels, though Draco has no idea what he’s got to be so angry about. Harry pushes off his bed and folds his arms over his chest. “I was under the impression you didn’t want to. And then—”

“And then.” Draco narrows his eyes. “What conclusions am I _supposed_ to draw? We don’t talk about the future.”

“You change the subject!” Harry throws his hands up. “You wouldn’t even share your placement scores with me when I asked!”

“I.” Draco blinks. “You asked if I had done well on my testing.”

“Well, yeah. What other tests are there? We don’t take our N.E.W.T’s for another month.” Harry exhales shakily, chest deflating. “I… prefer being able to talk directly about things. I mean, I understand that’s not going to work for _everyone_ , but—”

Draco takes a step closer. Another. “Then you _should_ talk to me directly.”

Harry matches his steps, narrowing the distance between them. “Fine. What are you doing next year?”

“I scored well enough to place into the Ministry Potions lab,” Draco says. “I thought to do that, if there was a reason to stay.”

“Fine.” Harry bites the word out as though it’s offensive. “If me being in love with you is enough of a reason, there’s that.”

“Fine,” Draco returns. It comes out furious, but the the thrumming of his body has changed tune, shaping around his muscles in an entirely different way. “It is.”

“And you?” Harry hooks up a dark brow, challengingly; he presses his lips flat. 

“I’m in love with you too,” Draco says, because Gryffindors are fucking contagious, and this time it’s _Harry_ who twists a hand in _his_ tie to drag Draco forward. 

Harry’s mouth on his is familiar, after so many hours spent kissing him in the last weeks. But now there’s a sharp, satisfying edge of pent up… _something_ that Draco wants to savour. He doesn’t have the time, though, not with Harry’s hands jerking the knot of his tie loose and shoving off his robes, Harry’s fingers flicking the buttons of his shirt open. Draco works just as fast to undress Harry — apparently, they’re now allowed to do that — and sucks Harry’s tongue into his mouth. Harry groans and yanks back. He kicks off his mangy trainers, unfastens Draco’s flies. His hands shake; his eyes are heavy lidded. “How do you want—”

“I’m not _afraid_ , no matter what you think,” Draco says, shoving Harry’s jeans and pants down around his thighs. And he’s not; he may not be very _experienced_ , but he knows what goes where, and his only hesitation is how to start exploring. He takes the opportunity their broken kiss affords him and strips Harry of his t-shirt, baring golden brown skin and lean, toned muscle. Draco’s breath leaves him as he looks; Harry’s cock is just as large as it’s felt in his hand, just as thick and stiff as it’s felt against his own through their clothes. The foreskin stretches tight around the flushed crown to reveal the slit, glistening and dripping like an overripe piece of fruit. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. He drops to his knees. 

“Draco,” Harry says, high and alarmed. Harry’s hand falls to his hair, fingers combing through it once before they clench as Draco unhesitatingly laps at the moisture accumulated at the tip. It’s salty-bitter, not at all unpleasant. He tongues the foreskin back over the high ridge and licks against the underside; there’s a small, pulsing vein there and Harry mutters his name again, brokenly, when Draco traces it with the firmed point of his tongue. 

“Is a good face fucking what you’d like to give me, Potter?” Draco asks, enjoying the husky quality of his voice; he thinks of that scene in the book, thinks of how book-Draco drove book-Harry crazy with his ability to take his cock into his throat. So they’re both on the same page, Draco opens his mouth and drags his lips down over Harry’s bobbing prick. Harry cries out, bucking gracelessly forward; Draco gags just as gracelessly, coughing as he pulls off, eyes watering. He stops Harry’s apology by trying again, lips stretched like his jaw is. He manages more this time, longer, and after that it’s just a matter of learning how to breathe through his nose and anticipate Harry’s rhythms. Harry’s cock is thick and heavy against his tongue; it jerks against his soft palate whenever Draco takes him deep. Spit drips down his chin, but Merlin, even _that’s_ hot in a way Draco can’t describe. He pushes down his own trousers to release his cock, which has begun periodically throbbing out small spurts of precome as he sucks Harry off and tries to swallow whenever Harry’s cock butts into his throat. He grips himself with a groan, sliding his mouth off Harry to flick his tongue over Harry’s bollocks, which have risen to hug his body.

“Malfoy,” Harry says thickly. The hand in Draco’s hair pulls, but Draco’s feels a rush of power at the neediness in Harry’s voice; he knocks Harry’s thighs wide and lowers his head further to lick at the patch of skin he sometimes like to play with whilst wanking, behind his bollocks. It’s soft and smooth but for the tight crease of skin in the middle, and Draco considers following it, considers twisting his head between Harry’s shaking thighs to continue licking his way up, but Harry snarls, “Goddamn it, Draco—!” and Draco lifts away. 

“What?” he asks, annoyed. 

“Get on my fucking bed.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Draco says. He stands and kicks off his shoes, stripping himself of his socks — there’s no good way to do it, and Harry hasn’t even bothered, yet — then strips his trousers the rest of the way off. Harry reaches for him; instead of divesting him of the shirt that now hangs off his shoulders, he uses it to pull Draco closer again, kissing him hard and greedy with a low growl that makes starbursts explode behind Draco’s closed eyelids. 

“Maybe I wouldn’t _have_ to if you paid attention,” Harry says, exasperation plain, before shoving Draco hard enough that his arse bounces against the mattress when he falls. Harry’s on him again immediately, wiry body covering Draco’s. He slots himself between Draco’s thighs, and Draco thinks, _Okay,_ or maybe says it aloud, because Harry hums as he gnaws his way down Draco’s throat, tongue dipping into the hollows of Draco’s collarbone, stubble rasping over his skin. Draco shivers, twisting up against Harry’s body. Their cocks slide together, wet with precome and saliva, and Draco groans; he reaches for them. 

“No,” Harry mumbles. He bats Draco’s hands away and lowers, lapping firm and coarse over Draco’s nipples. He says something under his breath and his bedside stand rattles before the drawer pops open to release a tube which flies into Harry’s hand. His laugh trembles like Draco does. “I’m...close,” he admits, a little shyly, and Draco— hell, he wants him all the more for it. “I took a shower when I got back from… But…” He thumbs the cap open.

“Oh,” Draco breathes, eyes widening. His brain stutters with the information; frankly, he’s surprised he _hasn’t_ come yet; it’s got to be the first time he hasn’t wanked while or after reading the book. To ensure it doesn’t happen, he curls his fingers tightly around the base of his cock. He licks his lips, watching Harry coat his fingers, and opens his knees wider, bringing them up. Harry pauses, like he’d been unsure where his slick fingers were going to _go_ — Draco swallows and grips the base of his cock even harder — but gamely reaches down, stroking over the skin of Draco’s crease. 

Draco jumps a little when Harry finds his hole, but Harry merely massages it for a moment; when he presses the tip of his finger inside, the lube has warmed and Draco’s gotten used to the sensation of someone else’s fingers there. It’s been an age since he’s tried this with anyone else, and Theo wasn’t nearly so talented at it in fifth year. 

“Hurts?” Harry asks when his finger is a few inches in. Draco manages a nod, wiggling his hips and exhaling. 

“Don’t care,” he says. He knows this part, only right now he doesn’t have to deal with awkward twisting. Of course it hurts, there’s a finger in his bum. “Keep going.”

Harry bites his lip and complies. His cock presses against the inside of Draco’s thigh, rigid as a bar, and Draco pants with anticipation, his own painfully-hard prick leaking against his hip, even as he holds it tight to forstall his orgasm. His arshole clamps and flutters around Harry’s finger, then another when Harry adds it, not so slow and gentle anymore, Harry’s face ruddy and red with concentration. 

“I thought about it,” he says tightly. “Doing this to you.”

“Do more of it.” Draco props his heel on Harry’s shoulder with a shudder; Harry’s eyes go hot, locked on the way his fingers are disappearing into Draco, black overwhelming the green. Draco reaches up and pulls Harry’s glasses off, tossing them aside, then curls a hand around his neck and pulls him down. Harry groans, kissing him and _kissing_ him, like a starving man presented with a feast, which Draco allows himself to take as a compliment. He kisses Harry back, gripping a great handful of Harry’s hair as Harry pushes another finger into him, rutting his cock against the join of Draco’s hip to thigh. It’s maddening, the brush of his shaft against Draco’s bollocks — which are impossibly sensitive — and the way his fingers work inside Draco with clumsy, tantalising strokes that skim over the spot that makes Draco shudder with pleasure 

Draco tilts his head; he sucks mindlessly at Harry’s jaw, his ear, anywhere he can reach. He wants to _mark_ Harry, wants to _have_ this, and he gulps once with the force of it before he remembers he doesn’t have to swallow his hopes anymore, not with Harry’s stubborn declaration of love still clear in his head.

“I love you,” he blurts, too loud in Harry’s ear. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “I’m mad with it.”

Harry’s fingers pause. His thumb skims over the stretched skim of Draco’s rim. He turns so their noses almost touch. 

“Me too,” Harry says quietly, eyes searching. His fingers slide free of Draco’s body and he feels himself clench, trying to keep them in. Harry rolls to situate them better — Draco loses his breath at Harry’s weight before he levers himself up on one forearm — and reaches between them. The round head of Harry’s prick touches against his loosened hole, presses, and Draco bites his lip at the discomfort as he’s breached. His cups Harry’s arse when he hesitates, fingers digging into the muscle to pull him deeper.

“Put it in me,” he murmurs. He licks Harry’s bottom lip for good measure and Harry moans lightly, face dropping into the bend of Draco’s throat. Harry huffs out broken little breaths against his neck with each pull and push, and Draco winds his leg around Harry’s hip. Everything hurts, inside and out, but it feels good too, the ache he’s lived with for so long transforming into something new: it’s the way he imagines a butterfly feels when breaking free of its chrysalis. 

One of Harry’s hands seeks his hip when he’s fully lodged, thumb pushing bruisingly against the bone. His pubic hair rubs against Draco’s arse. Draco kisses him again, nipping at Harry’s lips and tongue as he starts moving, working his arse over Harry’s cock. Harry doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself; he shudders in Draco’s arms, kissing him back helplessly, and lets Draco do the work, fucking himself up and down. Sparks of pleasure start to zip through Draco — spine and bollocks and prick, arse most of all — as his body relaxes more and more; his internal muscles turn clinging as they soften, and he shivers at the sensation when they drag around the heaviness of Harry’s prick. The glide of Harry’s cock in and out of him feels amazing, even if Draco has to use his core muscles to keep going. He clenches impatiently around Harry with a sharp glare. Harry’s glazed eyes snap to his, clearing a bit.

“Come _on_ ,” Draco mutters. 

“I’ll come,” Harry says, but unfreezes and starts tentatively moving. Draco turns his head to the side, squeezing his eyes at how much better it is as Harry picks up the pace, the hand on his hip slipping down to cup his arse and drag them closer together. Draco drops the leg on Harry’s shoulder, draping it over his forearm, and reaches for his cock.

“So will I, Potter,” he gasps as he starts to stroke. “If you’d help a little.”

Harry makes a little sound like an aging wireless and his next thrust is hard, jolting. Draco’s head knocks into the headboard, but he barely notices, because whatever Harry’s done to angle his hips is _just right_. A series of slurred _yes_ es fall out of Draco’s throat, and Harry seems to lose control of his hips, shoving in and in and _in_ with broken groans, and then Draco feels a flood of warmth, of wet, inside him. Harry’s cock throbs and he scrambles to cover Draco’s hand, pulling Draco’s cock with long, hard strokes until Draco jerks and comes, too, so fast he feels almost confused by it, so good it almost hurts.

***

_~The Rest of That Fucking Book~_

He wakes up from a doze, Harry’s body still sprawled bonelessly over him. “How long was I asleep?”

“A few minutes,” Harry says, sounding tired, but pleased. His cock is soft in Draco and Draco clenches around it experimentally, pleased when Harry tenses.

“By the way,” Draco says, “I do not have a fox-like face.”

Harry rumbles a laugh. His cock twitches and Draco squirms a little. “I’m okay with the comparison.”

“I’m _not_.” Draco shoves at his shoulders; for someone barely heavier than him and an inch shorter, Harry weighs a ton. Harry snorts and pulls out, rolling to the side; it feels massively weird, but at least Draco can breathe again. “And I’m not okay with you not just telling me how you felt.”

Sparing him an irritated glance, Harry says, “Well, I’m not either. I’m not the best at picking up...subtle signals. So it’s unfair.” Still, he picks up Draco’s hand, fingers scraping light over his palm. “Why are we arguing about this?”

“Get used to long-running arguments,” Draco informs him flatly. “And next time you want to declare something to me, write it in a card. Or a Howler; I don’t care.”

Harry squints. “Get used to the lack of cards; I’m a disaster at them. I gave Ginny one that said, ‘Congratulations on a Great Game!” back in sixth year and didn’t notice that the inside said, “Blokes like you are priceless to a team!” and I _still_ haven’t heard the end of it.” Draco bites back a laugh when Harry adds, somewhat dolefully, “I thought the flying wizard on the front was a witch. ...It looked like a witch.”

“Whatever,” Draco says, when the urge to laugh fades to manageable levels. Harry idly nips the tip of one of his fingers; a curious gesture, eyes on Draco for his reaction. He shivers. “Just... Don’t get me wrong, the book is great wanking material — if we change our names, we could find a publisher — but as declarations of love go, it’s a strange one, when you’ve not wanted to talk about… about where this is _going_.”

“Um.” Harry looks at him oddly. Slowly, he says, “Right. Good… good wanking material. I wanked to it. And...you wanked to it.”

“So?” Draco’s tempted to point out that he’s still leaking Harry’s come and ask why he’s being so weirdly fussy about wanking — they’re _eighteen_ , after all — but something in Harry’s face stops him. “You’re… uhm. A good writer,” he offers. “Very vivid. But I haven’t been sad. Not really. Usually,” he adds, to be fair. 

“Draco…” Harry props himself up on an elbow, dragging a hand through his hair. “I… I didn’t write that book. I thought you did. It was under _your_ tree.”

“It _is_ my tree!” Draco says with triumph. Then, “Wait, what?”

“Well, I found it. I went there to talk to you, and it wasn’t totally covered. The glow caught my eye,” Harry says, blinking rapidly. “I’ve been going back for updates. But you were… Sometimes things were the same as you wrote, and sometimes they weren’t, so I couldn’t figure out how much… Or what… I didn’t know whether we were…”

Dumbstruck, Draco stares at him. “Then who the bloody fuck have we been wanking to?” he half yells, horrified.

Harry opens his mouth, eyes wide and unguarded. He shakes his head mutely. Draco scrambles for his wand and Summons the book from where it fell to the floor in the middle of their...whenever. He flips through it feverishly, looking at the tidy writing, the purple ink. The pages are blank after the end of the last chapter, until he gets to the back cover. There, in small letters, are the words, “Harco Malter and the Wishing Tree.”

“Harco Malter?” Draco bellows. Harry’s mouth is still doing that strange, soundless, mermaid flapping, but at Draco’s infuriated voice, he starts laughing, rolling in on himself with helpless giggles. 

“H-H-Harco Malter?” he gets out before dissolving again.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Draco says, slinging the book across the room; it hits Weasley’s tacky Canon’s flag, and they both fall to the floor. “I really don’t love you at all.”

“Harco Malter!” Harry wheezes again with glee, wrapping a tight forearm around Draco’s middle to haul him close. He bites the junction of Draco’s throat and shoulder as if to keep him in place.

“That’s a— an _awful_ name,” Draco complains, barely softening against Harry’s side. “Who in the name of Euripides came up with—”

A soft knock interrupts them; without permission, the door pops open to reveal Lovegood. Harry squawks, laughter choking off abruptly; he yanks up the sheets on his bed to cover them, but she doesn’t seem remotely fazed. 

“Sorry for interrupting,” she says, smiling gently. She tucks a lock of buttery hair behind her ear and tilts her head. “I did wait until the moans had been over for a while. But I’ve got a date with Ginny soon, and my location spell says my book is in here?”

“Your—” Draco’s limbs go numb and for some reason he says, “There wasn’t a mention of Humpsmorps in it.”

“Do you mean Wrackspurts? Oh!” She lights up when she spots the book on the floor, retrieving it with a wave of her wand. “No, of course not. This was your story, not mine. Neither of you really believe if Wrackspurts.”

Draco chances a look at Harry, whose jaw hangs, unhinged. His eyes are as wild as the peacocks roaming free at the Manor.

“Luna, why would you—” It comes out faint, but she nods.

“Oh, yes. Well, that tree has a good flow of Wishing magic; I discovered that in third year. It doesn’t always work, of course,” she says with the same optimism that’s always made her placement into Ravenclaw so peculiar to Draco, “but when it does, it almost always goes quite well. I’m glad this worked out for you too. I knew you just needed a push. Like Ron and Hermione.”

“You wrote about Ron and Hermione,” Harry echoes. Draco winces at the image that provides, but Lovegood simply bobs her head again, hugging her book to her chest.

“Yes. The more explicit, I’ve found, the more likely it is to come true,” she says placidly. “I wrote about you defeating Voldemort, too.”

“...Thanks for that, then,” Draco says after a long pause, when Harry seems unable to find words.

“You’re welcome.” Graciously, she adds, “Harry did the hard work.”

“Luna,” Harry says, strained, “we’re, um, naked.”

“Oh, I know. You’re both even more attractive than I wrote. But I’m not really interested in joining—” She gestures at the bed vaguely, and if Draco thought he’d get another erection any time this week, that hope dies before his eyes as her implication registers. “Anyway, I have Gin for that. I didn’t even have to write about her!” she says brightly. 

“He means we’d like to be alone,” Draco mutters, discovering that the urges to laugh and cry feel fairly interchangeable. 

“Oh, right! Sorry!” Lovegood heads back toward the doorway, lingering. “I’ll tell everyone you’re busy so no one will bother you.”

“Thank you.” Harry closes his eyes; he takes a long pull of air before opening them. With surprising sincerity, he says, “Really. Thank you.”

“Sure thing, Harry.” Lovegood smiles winsomely. She shuts the door behind her, but her voice carries through it as she says, “I’d give them awhile, Ron. They’re going to make love again.”

Harry groans, rolling over to bury his face in his pillow. Torn between comforting him and hexing his own ears off, Draco pats Harry’s shoulder absently and only lets himself feel a little smug at Weasley’s cursing. 

“We wanked to Luna!” Harry says, muffled. 

“We did not!” Draco says, offended. “We wanked to… to each other.”

“To Luna writing about us shagging,” Harry corrects.

“We didn’t _know_.” Like that makes it better. Draco sighs, rubbing his forehead. 

“She thought we wanted a threesome! I just barely lost my virginity!”

“That’s just Lovegood,” Draco tells him, “and don’t ever, ever bring that up again.” He pauses. “...The virginity thing we can talk about. That’s sort of…” _Hot_ , Draco thinks, though he doesn’t know why. It’s not as though he’s had a font of sexual experience before Harry.

“I don’t think we should ever talk to or look at each other again, actually.” Harry rolls his head to the side despite his words and blinks up at Draco, morose. “That fucking book.”

“Why’d you thank her, then?”

“Because she somehow knew it, and wrote it, and… Because she’s Luna,” Harry mumbles. He runs his hand over Draco’s thigh. “She had good intentions.”

“Which worked out,” Draco says, unwillingly amused. “Like the way you defeated the Dark Lord.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I can’t wait to tell Ron that Luna’s written about him and Hermione.”

“Oh, please, let me.” Maybe his next week’s worth of erections _are_ salvageable. Harry snickers.

“I’d be a horrible friend.”

“But a good boyfriend,” Draco counters smoothly.

Harry’s hand stills on his hip. “And that’s what we are, right? Not for just now?”

Draco looks at him; his heart flutters strangely, unaccustomed to this sort of luck, this sort of happiness. He slides down in the bed to press a kiss to Harry’s mouth. 

“Yes,” he says, and smiles. “Let me know if you need it in writing.”

**Author's Note:**

> I legit almost titled this "Harco Malter and the Wishing Tree." I need help. lololol.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always so nice.
> 
> Also, I'm on [tumblr](https://bixgirl1.tumblr.com/) now! *waves*  
> And so is [carpemermaid](http://carpemermaidtales.tumblr.com/)!


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